Resident Punk
by KnigthHawk
Summary: After a night of booze, sex, and Misfits, Blunt and Fish awake to the nigtmare of Racoon City... please R&R **UPDATED AS OF 12/13/02....SO READ IT PUD!**


"The.fu..ugh. Mornings suh..ck"  
  
A single hand emerged from the rats nest of covers, sliding along the mattress, feeling along the ground. Marlboros. Marlboros.where the hell are the fucking Marlboros? Maybe smoking in the "bed" wasn't such a hot idea, but then again, I was too hung over to give a flying intercourse.  
  
Me and Blunt's place was pretty much what you'd expect for a couple of poor assed gutter punks; an empty, one room apartment, and I mean literally one fuggin room. No kitchen, no bathroom, no bedroom even.it was just one, big, empty room. Only furniture, a couple of moth-eaten mattresses tossed right on the floor in true punk fashion.  
  
I guess they didn't call this place the Sleeping Rooms for nothing.sleep, drink, and screw, that's 'bout all the place is good for, and that's assuming your girl is into pounding the mattress only mere feet away from a desperate, hasn't-gotten-any-in-such-a-long-time-he-can't-remember-who- slips- who- the-drugs, pornhound with a working camcorder fetish.  
  
Poor Blunt; can't remember the last time I didn't run one of his chicas off. Ah well, there's always more where that came from; Blunt is the grand daddy of all that is pimp, and I'm here to pick up on the overflow.  
  
"The hell.Camels? Stupid Blunt with his stupid ass tasting cheap cigs.", I mutter, lighting one of said cheap, ass tasting cigs up. Hey, it's a small incinerary tube filled with tobacco and nicotine; it'll do.  
  
Slowly it dawned on me that there were way too many police sirens wailing outside the Sleeping Rooms for my well being.'course, one pig is too many for this neck of the woods. Too many party drugs, cheap whores, brutal ass whoppins, and underage drinking.and that's just me folks.  
  
Grumbling, I stagger to my feet; not exactly a morning person, 'specially when that morning starts at four in wee hours, and the night of party hard ended at two. Maybe that ass Scarf finally got himself busted; Lord, that'd make/break my day. One hand, I'd love to see the chick beating panzy hauled off; on the other hand, with him gone, where else am I gonna get me Amphetamines? Lord knows I ain't a happy camper without my kickers.  
  
If they're really coming down on Scarf, woe to the next skinhead that gets in my way, that's all I'm gonna say.  
  
Shuffling over to the window, I take a look at what's going down.no way. No. Fucking. Way. Desperately, I racked my mind for something to explain this shit; was I dropping acid again last night? I thought I swore never to touch that shit again after the "incident"..I mean, Bob Fett was pretty damn pissed at me for chasing him around his apartment with a ball bat like that, but hey, I was only trying to save him from those air whales flying outta the crack in his skull! He shoulda been thanking me!  
  
"Blunt..Blunt! Wake the hell up man.WAAAAAAAAAAAAKEY WAKEY ", I yell at him, punctuating each word with a kick to the side.  
  
"Shut the hell up you two bit queer!", he muttered, yanking his blankets over his head.  
  
"Get 'yo lazy ass up, pud! There's like a thousand friggin cops outside!"  
  
"Good; maybe they're finally coming down on that putz Scarf."  
  
"Um.they're like killing zombies..."  
  
"What?!", that got his attention; his eight inch mowhawk whipped up, and fixed me with a stare that just screamed "just how long have you been riding the short bus?".  
  
"The walking dead man; zombies, as in The Night of the Living. The cops are fuggin shooting friggin ZOMBIES!"  
  
"That's what I thought you said.Fish man, just HOW much acid were you droppin last night?"  
  
"Not enough for this shit, that's for damn sure."  
  
"Riiiiiiight.pud.", he replied, holding out his hand. Grabbing hold of his wrist, I haul Blunt's scrawny ass to his feet and shove him over to the window. The look on his face was classic; and if it wasn't for the fact I was still hoping to Wobbly Headed Bob that I had been trippin, it woulda been friggin hilarious.  
  
"Fish"  
  
"Yo"  
  
"There's fucking zombies out there."  
  
"You see 'em too?"  
  
"They're eating the cops."  
  
"So.you see them too?"  
  
"I don't think you get it..you woke me up and there's zombies out there."  
  
"Dude.you see 'em too, right?"  
  
"YES!"  
  
"Shit"  
  
Reaching over, Blunt snagged the pack of Camels out of my hand; whipping a cig out, he looked at me rather expectantly. Figuring he wanted a light, I held up my Pretty Suited Solider Zippo up, and sent him one step closer to blackened lungs.  
  
"One question Fish."  
  
"Just one?"  
  
"You woke me up for this?"  
  
..  
  
Ugh. That was Blunt in the nutshell right there; scary part is, he's the brains of this here operation. Lord knows my mind boiled alive in the chemical soup I call a circulatory system years ago.and let's face it, I wasn't all that bright to begin with.  
  
Even as he plopped back down on his mattress, I was pulling him back to his feet; Blunt may not never worry 'bout nothing, but me, I don't exactly see sitting here waiting for a horde of flesh eating corpses to come claim my young, nubile body as a good time. I is a sexy bitch; ain't no way I'm gonna let the walking dead gnaw away at this hot ass.  
  
Once I got Blunt goin, he made the executive decision to get our shit together and split right quick; maybe such a course of action shoulda been obvious, but, like I said, my mind is more than a bit fried; logic ain't my strong point no more.  
  
Stripping off my sweatpants, I quickly slip into a thick pair of jnco jeans, and my leather motorcycle jacket; between those and my steel-toes, I figured I was pretty well protected.not like Blunt in his hoodie and bondage pants.  
  
Getting our stuff packed was quick and dirty; we lived out of our knapsacks more often than not. We'd only been in Raccoon City for about a month and a half, or there abouts; as light as we travel, neither one of us had really unpacked. We hadn't planned to even stay this long in the city, but a certain little chica had caught Blunt's eye, and we ended up getting sidetracked. Not that it really bothered me none; Raccoon City was a resort town, with plenty for me to do. Hell, once Squirrel and Yoda showed up, things began to kick some serious ass 'round here.  
  
You see, about four years ago, my sister, Irene turned up beaten, raped and dead. I almost didn't survive it.hell, Blunt pretty much self-destructed; she was his fiancée, and if I ever saw a couple more bat-shit stupid for each other, Lord knows I can't recall 'em. In one month's time, she woulda been eighteen, and the two of 'em were gonna get hitched. Blunt dove head first into a bottle on the day they were supposed to be wed; as for me, well, before her death, I was straight arrow to a fault, but afterwards.hell, you saw the chemicaled mess I was when I woke up, so is it even really in question anymore?  
  
A few months later, Blunt showed up on my doorstep, said he was going on a road trip: you in? Throwing a couple pairs of clothes into a knapsack, we were on our way, and didn't look back for four wild, mind-numbing, self- destructive, best years of my life.  
  
We had been on our way home to see our families when we "passed through" Raccoon City and got sidetracked. It wasn't like they were expecting us, so what was the harm, eh?  
  
A piercing scream of agony rang out in the chill night's air, momentarily drowning out the sound of gunfire. The police were losing, and losing bad; made sense, really. One time they decide to do something useful instead of writing tickets, and they screw it up big time. Bad cop! No doughnut for you!  
  
Suppose my distaste for authority was showing through, but whatever. The distinctive metalic click of a clip sliding home came from my right, and I caught a glimpse of Blunt sliding his Police Edition 9mm into the back of his pants. Oddly enough, green-haired, Mohawk boy here had been raised by a pair of police officers; kid was one hell of a shot.  
  
Me, I preferred to get down and dirty; maybe not such a hot idea with zombies, but what the hell? Ya only live once.still, Blunt had the right idea, as per usual. Rummaging through my bag, I run across my army surplus combat knife, still in its sheath, and my brass knuckles. Slipping the sheath on my belt, I grab my Louisville Slugger, take up my pack, and slip out the door.  
  
The second floor landing was pandemonium; the drunks, whores, and assorted lowlifes who tenanted this place were all milling about in varying states of undress. Searching in my pocket for a stray barbiturate, or tablet of something good, I try, unsuccessfully, to shut out the dull, panicked roar.  
  
"The fuck is going on round here?", roared a familiar drunken slur. I swear, if I didn't depend on the dick for my kicks, I woulda put Scarf down the day I got here. Blunt wanted to anyway; he saw the man as competition. 'Course, that's a matter of opinion; me and Blunt only sell the lighter stuff, weed, E, maybe some misappropriated prescription meds here and there. Heroin, coke, and the real bad shit, we didn't touch.stuff's more trouble than it's worth.  
  
"Well, Scarfie, near as I can figure, Hell ain't got no more vacancies.", I muttered.  
  
"Fuck you Fish"  
  
"Ain't into dudes, man"  
  
"I oughta fuck you up, you little shit"  
  
It was right about that point Blunt strode out of our room and smacked the skinhead upside the head with his skateboard.  
  
"Starting shit when everything's going to hell; how long you ride the short bus for man?", Blunt spat, slinging his battered skateboard under his arm. Transport, weapon, way to show off; there were a thousand and one uses for a handy dandy skateboard, so sayith the Blunt.  
  
Whatever idle threat Scarf was about to make was drowned out as the front door of the Sleeping Rooms exploded inward, showering glass shrapnel among the poor bastards milling about the ground floor. A living nightmare flew through the doorway; I caught a glimpse of a creature that looked like a cross between a hairless ape and a bipedal iguana.a creature I'd later name a Hunter.  
  
A symphony of screams arose from the lower level as it tore into the fear- crazed mob; even those on the second level began to panic, some barring themselves in their rooms, others standing stock still in shock; a few of the more crazed hurled themselves down the stairs, trying to make it out the ruined door.those jackasses were the first to die.  
  
A horde of living dead began pouring in, taking down anything that was living; even as the main tide swept through the ground floor, the dead flew in a torrent up the narrow stairs, two at a time.  
  
Looking at each other for a bare moment, Blunt and I both seize Scarf and launch his big ass into the flowing tide of inhumanity, momentarily scattering them, knocking most of the buggers back down the flight of steps. A single zombie made it to the top, and the bastard was the lucky recipient of a skateboard to the head and a ball bat to the gut, flooring it.  
  
"Bitch!", we spat in unison.  
  
"Blunt?"  
  
"Yo."  
  
"Now what?"  
  
Turning, Blunt sprinted down the hallway, with me hot on his heels. Throwing the window at the end of the hallway open, Blunt climbed out onto the fire-escape. Glancing back, I saw a few of the other tenants following suit.or falling victim to the walking dead flowing up those stairs. Talk about getting your ass chewed out.  
  
Pounding up the fire-escape, I follow Blunt up to the roof, wondering what the hell he was thinking; roof equals dead end jackass!  
  
"Blunt, what the hell man?", I yell, running up to his side; clutching my ball bat, I glance around nervously, waiting for the hammer to come down. The dynamic duo, Blunt and Fish, they've been in some bad shit before man, real bad shit, but this was pushing it.  
  
A shriek sounded out behind us, cut off as quickly as it began; glancing over my shoulder, I see another of those reptilian bitches tearing into Lisa, our next door neighbor; a third climbed over the edge of the building and took down Holtz, a skinhead that hung with Scarf.  
  
Blunt seized my arm and yanked me forward; running for all we were worth, we hurled ourselves over the five foot gap separating the Sleeping Rooms from the laundromat next door, one of those.things.following hard.  
  
The laundromat's roof was smooth and on a small incline; without even seeming to think about it, Blunt threw down his skateboard, quickly pulling ahead of me. I already knew what he was planning; the crazy bastard was gonna try and jump it! It was at leas twice the distance of the other, and the idiot was a thinking we were gonna jump it!  
  
Like I said.he's the brains of this here operation, and when he ramped off the edge of the building, I followed, screaming obscenities. Fear plus amphetamines can make a person almost superhuman-almost. This much ass just wasn't meant to fly over the streets, lookin like Spiderman after a pie- easting contest.  
  
Still, when I came to, I was pretty damn impressed with myself.  
  
  
  
The skateboard slammed down on the Quick Wok's wanna-be pagoda's green tiled roof with a clatter of wheels against ceramic. Hearing a thud, Blunt looks back just in time to see my big ass slam into the side of the building and disappear from sight; it was a four story building, roughly the same height as the larndromat and Sleeping Rooms. By all accounts, I oughtta be fucked up but good and zombie food to boot.  
  
"Fuck me Freddy!", he yells as the iguana looking thing makes the jump no prob bob; leaning into the incline, Blunt begins picking up speed as another Hunter climbs up the other side of the building, right in his path.  
  
Crouching, it almost seems to grin as Blunt hurtles towards the big green bitch. At the last moment, the gutter punk kicked the back edge of his skateboard, snapping up into his outstretched hand, radically changing his speed; the striking claw exploded through the empty air in front of the gutter punk's chest, putting the it off balance; game over pal. Slamming the hard edge of the board directly into the little shit's face, the thing tumbled off the side of the building, a Holy Buddha look crossing its face.  
  
Still working with his momentum, Blunt pivots on his right foot, and coming down on one knee, hurls his skateboard at knee height, tripping the pursing Hunter up; after that, inertia did the rest. The ape/iguana (apeguana?) slammed face first on the tile roof, rolled right past Blunt, and right off the damn roof.  
  
Not that he gave a damn at that particular moment. Rushing forward, he seized up the ragged end of his broken board; the fuggin thing shattered when it hit ultra-pud over there.  
  
"GOD DAMN MOTHER FUCKEN BITCH CUNT HELL! I'LL KILL THE FUCKEN PUD!"  
  
Snatching up the bigger half of the board, Blunt glanced around the roof, looking for a way down. Taking a few steps forward he noticed one of the fake assed pagoda outcroppy.things.dropped off not ten feet off the ground, with a dumpster cutting the distance to a short hop.  
  
Grinding down the railing-like projection, his SOAPS catching the gently rolling pagoda thingy, Blunt made a controlled fall into the open dumpster below. A few muffled curses later, he was slipping over the edge, and rolling across the alley floor. Jumping to his feet, Blunt runs at the zombie standing at the head of the alley; ducking under it's outstretched hands, he slams his fist into its ruined face, knocking it back. Snapping off a quick kick into its kneecaps, popping it out of place, he elbows the deadhead in the back of the skull as it fell.  
  
Making his way around the front of the building, he found what was left of the apeguanas; one had impaled itself on a parking meter, still kicking feebly. The other was crouched on the shattered car on which it landed, shaking its head, trying to clear the cobwebs.  
  
Blunt's response was immediate; rushing it, he leapt as high as he could and planted his hardest dropkick into the damned thing's chest, knocking the startled fuck right off the flippin car. Blunt recovered first, whipping his 9mm out and pumping a round into both its kneecaps; rushing forward, he slams the broken skateboard into its head time and again, all the while screaming, "DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH THIS FUCKING THINGS COST YOU PUD?! DO YOU?! HUH?".  
  
Eventually the big lug collapsed and stopped trying to get up; after a few more minutes, Blunt's rage cooled, and he stopped beating it.hell, it's head had fallen off like two minutes ago.  
  
Glancing around, he noticed way too many uglies shambling in his general direction; the way most of their faces were craving in, they kinda reminded the gutter punk of Michael Jackson.  
  
Whipping his police edition nine milly into play, Blunt pumped three rounds in the chest of the nearest deadhead; the five second bullets ripped a basketball sized hole through the damn thing's chest, but it kept a-comin.  
  
Aiming higher, he squeezed the trigger again, and let out a whoop at the satisfyin pop of a zombie head exploding like an overripe melon.  
  
"Nuh-uh", he squealed in delight, popping the zombie behind it, and then another one.  
  
"Oh, that is so pimp"  
  
Temper tantrum forgotten, Blunt turned and ambled off, pistol-whipping a zombie that dove out of a dark alley at him. Hey, he grew up in Detroit; after that, ain't nothing in a redneck hick town like Raccoon City gonna scare this boy.  
  
  
  
Reality came back to bite me in the ass shortly after; the throbbing pain piercing my admittably thick skull was ringing out a message bright and clear:  
  
WAKEY WAKEY PUD!  
  
My eyes slid open with some effort; coming more fully awake, I found my body to be a mass of aches and pains. Damn, I could use a few hits of E right about now.but I suppose it had to wait until I figured out where in the name of Wobbly Headed Bob I was.  
  
Struggling to my feet, my steel-toes sank down into the sea of green plastic puddling out around me; if that rank ass smell didn't give it away, the garbage bags sure as shootin did. I landed in an open dumpster; how's that for luck?  
  
But still, I survived a four-story plummet to the mushy "earth"; like I said, I was pretty damn impressed with myself. But, hey, it's like they say, Bumbles bounce.  
  
A low moaning wafted in from the dark night, and hoisting myself up to peek over the thick steel edge, I saw a small blonde staggering into the side of it, arms outstretched, groaning in pain. Okay, generally speaking, I like the situation that calls for any female, of any description or age, to cry out at me like that, but the big, bloody hole in her stomach pretty much screamed "HEY! I'M A FUCKING ZOMBIE DAWG! WOOF! WOOF!".  
  
Still, had to admit, she was one fine chica. If it wasn't for the whole flesh-eating thing, me and living dead girl here coulda had some fine necrophilia time, but, as things stood, she was going down.  
  
Climbing up on the edge of the dumpster, I unsheathe my army surplus combat knife and peg her in the head with it. The blade struck her in the forehead at a downward angle and exploded through the backside of her head, passing right through that ever-classic zombie G-spot: the brainpan. Hopping down, I glance up and down the alley, looking to see if anyone else wanted to throw down; no one did. Too bad. I was looking for trouble mate, believe you me. Crouching down beside the dead (again) corpse, the thought occurred to me that considering it looked like the entire city was sucked into the ninth concentric circle of Hell, I'd probably find said trouble sooner rather than later.  
  
"Shit.all I want is to smoke a bowel with my buds with a naked hottie in my lap, sittin around a fuggin bonfire singing kum-bi-ya ; is that SOOOOOOO much to ask?", I mutter, ripping my knife outta the little thing's head. Wiping the blade clean on her blouse, I resheath the bad boy.  
  
Hell, this works too. Always bragged I'd live through a horror movie; time to prove it.  
  
The Southside of Raccoon city's a warren of interconnecting alleyways, footpaths, and interconnecting back roads; police didn't show their faces down this way much, not even their fancy pants S.T.A.R.S. Unit.which was kinda odd. Not the fact that they didn't show up down here, but the fact that a hick assed tourist town like Raccoon would have a terrorist response squad to begin with. Sure, Umbrella did a helluva lot business outta this place, but what the hell, you know? If you were gonna fuck with Umbrella, you hit one of their main complexes in Europe, or one of their mammoth (which, for the burn outs among the audience, means big assed) office complexes in NYC, Austin, or some place like that.  
  
Still, Raccoon was a rich bitch sort of town; real yuppiesville. Down here in the Southside, just a hop, skip, and a jump away from the warehouse district, was practically a ghost town; why in the name of all that is THC and PCP the cops choose down here to make their stand against the deadites is beyond me.  
  
To my way of thinking, Main Street oughta be crawling with the deadite scum; but the back streets should be relatively clean. If I could make it to the warehouse district on the other side, I could probably hook up with a fully gased automotive of the big rig sort. If the mess I saw on Main Street outside the Sleeping Rooms was any indication, the roads of Raccoon must be pretty fucked up, and a tractor-trailer was just the right thing to muscle through it.  
  
Besides, I needed to find a phone, post haste mi amigos. Blunt was out there somewhere, bereft of his sidekick; without me to pull his ass outta the fire at the last second, how is he gonna save the day? Once I had my big rig, I could call up the little pud's cell and be like "Have no fear, Fish is here, bitch!".  
  
Somehow, the idea that Blunt might be dead never occurred to me; I know my bro better than anyone else, and let me tell you, he's a helluva scarier than anything haunting these.um.haunted streets.  
  
But then again, so am I.  
  
Picking my way down the alley, putting as much distance between me and Main Street as possible, I haul ass for the warehouse district, pausing only long enough to pop a stray pill I found in my pocket. Still couldn't have told you what it was, but I do know I have sparkly happy feelings once it kick in.which was a damn sight better than the bruised, battered, and generally pissed off shit that was floating through my mind before. I needed all the happy feelings I could get man; anger is bad karma, and there's enough bad mojo floating around this place.  
  
After an hour or so, I found myself completely lost in the labyrinth of the Soutside slums; dilapidated, caving in two stories surrounded me on every side. Back in the day, when Raccoon City had been a mining town, this place had been a richy rich type neighborhood, the kind 'o place your fat housewife would brag to her old biddy friends that ya'all lived in. Once the depression hit, this place pretty much went to pot (mmmm.pot), and never really filled back up. The city council had made numerous plans to clear the area, but they never got around to it; when I showed up, they were arguing about where to get the funds to subsidize a project that damn large.  
  
All things I didn't want to know, but then again, when you're a recreational user of coke like me, you tend to pick up some strange facts when you'tr hanging out in the bathroom with some asshole stranger at a party trying to score some of "The Dandruff of Christ", if ya take my meaning. But, it's like my hero Dennis Leary once said, Jews would be hanging out in there with Hitler if he had coke; yeah I like your mustache, snort snort, nah, those swastikas don't make you look fat, snort snort, fucking Himmler.  
  
Still, the place was an absolute mess of interconnected streets and by- ways, just begging to get someone lost, raped, and mugged.and while I wouldn't mind getting a good "raping" right now, getting lost and mugged by one 'o those apeguana's (which I was already beginning to refer to as Hunters, even if in my own mind) didn't constitute what I'd consider a "good thing" right about now.  
  
I ran into a bit of trouble here and there, but honestly, lone zombies like the ones I was running into down here didn't really constitute a bona fide threat; they all did the exact same thing. A growly type moany thing, the throwing out of the arms, and the retard charge, all classic hallmarks of a Raccoon City zombie attack. There were just so many ways a big guy with a baseball bat could deal with this; poor little buggers never really stood a chance.  
  
What kept me worried was listening for the muffled pitter patter of scaled feet supporting a squat, four hundred plus pound body; guess I was so focusing on the Hunters that I forgot to listen for other tell tales.  
  
Which is how I met every hardcore hentai's worst sex freak fantasy come to life. 


End file.
